SurVision Magazine
An international online magazine
that publishes Surrealist poetry in English.
Issue Eleven
THOMAS TOWNSLEY
The Allegorist
Begin with landscapes: a river in search of its pocket-watch. Ptarmigan ex
nihilo. Butterflies shrugging on the amaranthuses.
Irradiant glissandi. Ballerina whispers.
The lantern-girl reminds us: "Origami class is imminent – the body cannot
keep its voice." And then, with a wink: "This rhombus was erected to a
lesser deity."
The fungus collector agrees. "Most of the stars in this hemisphere are
of the Phillips-head variety," he confesses, keeping one hand carefully
hidden.
Wild zippers rustle in the barberry hedges.
Things are and are not. Circumstances prevail.
Zithers of light bombard the compound, summoning urgent sforzandi
from the shy coxswain.
The new chef reminds us that many dreams lack a narrative thread. He
wants you to try his new sauce – now!
And, as always, the Allegorist sits, legs dangling, at the dock's edge,
staring at something in the water.
"How Is Your Tuesday?"
A uniformed elevator operator from the 1940's sits on a footstool,
muttering the word "Vatic."
A false prophet leaves something sticky in my inner ear.
A woman who can be seen only peripherally says, "Last night's moon
was a decaying tooth, which explains why lies are your foundation. Why
don't you –" but her voice is cut short by plummeting chandeliers.
On a deserted beach, I seek another invisible hinge for my collection.
A unicyclist reminds me to examine my choices carefully.
When the salt vendor asks if I believe in love at first sight, I toss seven
astrolabes into the sea – then forget what I was going to say.
Yes-Man
A plastic surgeon with a valise full of milkweed tried to warn me: "The
Yes-Man is coming."
Busy dousing pomegranates with kerosene and setting them on fire, I
paid no mind.
A libertine phlebotomist in a purple beret was next: "You don't under-
stand. Today's Yes-Man no longer dresses in Tupperware. You won't
recognize him by his Dacron smile. Today's Yes-Man is a master of
camouflage. He speaks in paraphrase, and behind his eyes are
waterspouts that never touch down."
"Very well," I said. "I shall scan the horizon." But instead, I went on
lacing corsets for leeches.
Finally, a gaunt perfusionist with fistfuls of tallow assailed me. "Today's
Yes-Man dwells in interstitial space," he said. "His love is a dust cloud –
his promises, a flight of wrens. When you aren't looking, he'll spread
mayonnaise on your soul. He'll make your lilies stammer."
"But Father, my lilies already stammer," I said.
The perfusionist looked puzzled. "I'm not a priest, and I'm certainly not
your father," he replied. "I'm here to warn you about the Yes-Man."
"Oh right," I said, and turned back to my private, orthotic lathe.
Thomas Townsley grew up in Central
Pennsylvania and received his Master's Degree in English and Creative
Writing from Syracuse University in 1983. He is an English professor at
Mohawk Valley Community College in Utica, New York. Recent publications
include Reading the Empty Page (Black Rabbit, 2015), Night Class for Insomniacs (Black Rabbit, 2018), Tangent of Ardency (SurVision Books, 2020),
and Holding a Séance by Myself (Standing Stone Books, 2021).
